Tuesday Night
by ShadowsOnTheMoon
Summary: Spencer Hastings is perfect... or she was, until she let everything spiral out of control. Now she's hit rock bottom, and she's got nowhere else to turn. But with one phone call, can she turn her luck around? Wrencer pairing. Mentions self-harm.


**So this little idea came from a story called 'It Does Wonders' by GiveMeJustAMinute, which you should all go and read because it's awesome. Be warned that this story is about self-harm, so if you're sensitive or likely to be triggered, PLEASE don't read it. If not, read on, and tell me what you think.**

* * *

Spencer Hastings was perfect. She was very aware of this. She knew that a single rumour, a failed test, an improper relationship, could ruin her reputation. That was unacceptable. As a Hastings she'd been raised to believe that failure was not an option, and as _Spencer_ she believed that anything less than perfection was inadequate. She worked hard to maintain the illusion, and sometimes she even fell for it herself. Once she had hated her imperfections, but now she merely ignored them; if she refused to acknowledge their existence, then they wouldn't cause a problem.

_Then how_, she asked herself, _do I explain this little problem I'm having now?_

As she stumbled over to the armchair she tried to convince herself that she wasn't drunk, but the half-empty bottle of vodka on the counter argued strongly to the contrary. She looked at it, then down at her hands, and felt sick. A moment later she was, and barely made it to the bathroom in time. When she'd finished she stood on unsteady legs and wiped her mouth on her sleeve, wondering if gravity had recently rethought its ideals and decided to rearrange itself. Staying upright wasn't usually this hard, was it?

She collapsed back into the chair, curling up like she used to when she was a kid, and wishing there was someone here to hold her. But her various family members were all busy living their perfect lives, and she was drinking alone on a Tuesday night. The thought made her giggle. Perfect little Spencer Hastings was being thoroughly spontaneous and irresponsible, and nobody would know. Tomorrow she would wake up early, pin her hair back, put on her favorite dress, and go back to being the Spencer everybody thought they knew.

Her friends all assumed that she was who she said she was. She can't keep a secret, they said, she'd tell us if something was really wrong. And she did tell them, sometimes. She told them when she was fighting with Melissa, when she broke up with Toby, when her father was being too hard on her. She told them just enough to make them feel like she was confiding in them, but not enough that she was worried she was revealing her weakness to them. This was the same weakness that was killing her now, staining her soul, seeping through her sleeves…

She blinked. A red stain was spreading across her left sleeve, radiating out from a central point midway down her arm. She pulled the sleeve back and stared at the deep gash that stretched from one side of her arm to the other. Her eyes drifted from that to the bloody knife that lay a few feet away, and she started to remember. She'd done that, hadn't she? She remembered making that first cut, digging the knife in until she almost cried out in pain… and then there was a haze of alcohol and tears, and she'd pulled up her sleeve without looking at the damage.

Now she looked at it, and she realised she'd gone too far. She traced a finger along the latticework of scars on her arm, a network of secrets she'd been keeping. When the noise in her head got too much, the knife silenced it. She'd never talked to anyone about this, not even Ali when she'd walked in on her doing it once. Ali had just stood there, confused, and then shrugged as if to say _You gotta do what you gotta do_.

This was her safety net, her way to deal with a world that was cold and unfeeling. But gradually she'd become like that too. To protect herself from pain and suffering, she'd blocked out any emotion. If she was never excited, she could never be disappointed. If she never let herself feel happiness, she'd have nothing to measure her sadness against. And that was better, wasn't it?

But tonight she had broken. As the blood continued to spread she realised that the reason she was feeling sick wasn't just the alcohol. She was losing a lot of blood. She wondered how much she could lose before she'd pass out. And she wondered how much she would have to lose before she wouldn't wake up.

Before her alcohol-affected mind could catch up with her hands, she was reaching for her phone and dialling in a number she hadn't used in weeks.

He answered at once. "Hello?"

"I think I did something stupid," she slurred.

"Spencer?" He was on alert at once, knowing something was wrong. "Is that you?"

"Mhm," she mumbled, feeling the phone start to slide from her grip. She lunged for it as it fell, but ended up only knocking it to the ground. When she managed to pick it up again he was halfway through a sentence.

"- everything okay? You sound -"

"I'm fine," she muttered, but she knew that he wouldn't buy it.

"What's going on?" She could picture his features softening, that cute look of confusion mingled with concern on his face.

"I think I -" She hiccupped. "I did something."

She knew what she'd done, but she also knew she couldn't say the words. The action was easier than admitting it aloud.

"Something like what?" he asked.

She ran a hand through her hair, getting frustrated when it got stuck in a tangle. "I shouldn't have called," she said, pulling the phone away from her ear and staring at it. Where was the button to hang up?

"Spencer!"

The fear in his voice made her reconsider. She put the phone back to her ear, swallowed, and said, "Yes?"

"I'm coming over there."

She was about to protest, but then she recognised the sounds coming from his end of the line: he was already getting into his car and starting the engine.

"Just stay on the line, okay?" he pressed, and she could hear him start to speed up. "Keep talking to me. I'll be there in a few minutes."

His voice was so comforting that she made the mistake of letting her eyes drift closed. The phone slid from her grasp and hit the floor as she passed out, unable to hear Wren calling her name over and over again.

* * *

"Spencer. Wake up. Look at me."

She opened her eyes and stared uncomprehendingly into the face of an angel. He reached down and pulled her into a sitting position, and she was hit by a wave of nausea. She pressed a hand against her mouth to stop herself throwing up. That was when he noticed her arm.

"Spencer," he said, his eyes wide, "what is that?"

On instinct she pulled her arm away, trying to hide it. But it was no use. He had seen it, and there was no way to make him forget. Besides, she'd called him, hadn't she? On some level she had wanted his help.

"Spencer." He kept saying her name, like he was trying to keep her grounded. "Let me look at it. Please?"

Mutely she held out her arm, wincing as he pulled back the sleeve. When he saw what was underneath, he turned deathly pale. And for once, he was speechless.

"What -?" he choked out once he'd found his voice again. "What happened?"

She couldn't bring herself to reply, but she looked over at the knife. He followed her eyes, and slowly he began to put the pieces together.

"Did you do that to yourself?" He sounded like the words caused him physical pain.

Spencer ducked her head, unable to meet his eyes. She tried to pull her sleeve back down but he grabbed her hand, squeezing it gently.

"_Why_?"

There was so much emotion in his voice that it startled her into looking at him. Were there _tears_ in his eyes?

"Spencer," he said. Maybe saying her name _was_ helping tie her to a reality that was quickly slipping away from her. "I'm going to ask you something, and I need you to answer me honestly. Can you do that?"

She shrugged.

"Were you trying to kill yourself?"

She stiffened, stilled. She took in a ragged breath, and she met his eyes. "I don't think so."

Although it wasn't exactly the heartfelt denial he'd been hoping for, it was better than nothing.

"Okay," he said. "Now, we should get you to a hospital. Can you walk?"

"No."

"That's okay." He started pulling her to her feet. "You can lean on me. Come on, if we -"

"No," she said again, more forcefully. She yanked her hand away and wrapped her arms around herself. "I'm not going to the hospital."

"Spencer," he said, exasperated. "You're practically bleeding out on your mother's armchair here. If we don't get you to a hospital you could die!"

"Is that such a bad thing?" She didn't look at him when she said that, but she could feel his shock.

"It is," he said earnestly, crouching down so that he was at her eye-level. "Spencer Hastings, you are an incredible girl. The world would be a much darker place without you. And I wouldn't be able to live with myself knowing I didn't do everything in my power to save you. So please, just get up. We'll take you to the hospital and get you cleaned up -"

"It's not that easy." Her voice was becoming softer, sleepier. That was a very bad sign. "Do you know what my parents will do if they find out about this? Do you know how my sister will react? Do you have any freaking idea how I'd be able to face Aria and Hanna and Emily if they knew I'd done this to myself?"

"I know it won't be easy," Wren said gently, "but it's better than the alternative."

She stared resolutely across the room, and after five minutes of stony silence he admitted defeat.

"I have some supplies in my car," he said. "I can probably patch you up myself, although obviously I'd be much happier if you went to a hospital -"

"_No_ hospitals," she growled without looking at him.

He gave her one last worried look before scurrying out the door. He came back a couple of minutes later with an official-looking doctor's bag, which he set down on the floor as he prepared to treat his patient.

"This may hurt a bit," he said, and she almost laughed at the irony of it.

It did hurt, although the alcohol dulled it a little bit. She sat still while he cleaned and dressed the wound, stitching her up like a broken doll. Finally he finished, packing away his supplies with surprising efficiency.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, the tenderness in his voice almost making her flinch.

She'd caused him so much trouble, and he had been nothing but wonderful to her. She didn't deserve him. She deserved the pain that was shooting through her arm, the sickness that was settling in her stomach, the knowledge that she had pushed all of her friends away. She deserved to be alone.

And yet here he was, making her feel special and loved, taking care of her when she was lower than she'd ever been. Here he was, making her feel a tiny spark of hope. Here he was, his fierce passion thawing the ice that had formed around her heart.

"I feel okay," she said quietly. The fog from the vodka was beginning to clear, and she was starting to be able to think again. Her voice still slurred, but it was becoming more audible.

He fetched her a glass of water, and when he handed it to her and their fingers touched she felt a little shiver run through her. She sipped it slowly, gradually feeling more like her old self.

"I'm not perfect." The second the words spilled from her mouth she wondered why she'd said them.

Wren looked at her quizzically, and she felt obliged to explain.

"Everybody needs me to be perfect," she said. "If I'm anything less, they look at me with pity and disdain and I can't _stand_ it. So I have to be perfect."

"Oh, Spencer," he said, leaning forward so that their faces were only a few inches apart, "you _are_ perfect. You're you."

She looked into his eyes, and she wondered if he was just trying to make her feel better. Did he spin such pretty phrases for all the girls? But there was a sincerity, a genuineness, that made her wonder if maybe he was telling the truth.

"I've seen you at your best, and I've seen you at your worst," he said softly, and she could feel his breath across her lips, "and none of it could ever make me love you any less."

She very much wanted to kiss him then, but he was every bit the gentleman. He just pulled her to him, let her rest her head in his lap, and stayed perfectly still while she fell asleep. So she slept, enveloped in the arms of the one man who might be able to save her, and for the first time in a long time she felt safe.

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**Thanks for reading. Loved it? Hated it? Not a Wrencer fan? Comment and let me know your thoughts. :)**


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